


wolf night

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Battle of Agincourt, Character Death, Death, Death Wish, Gen, Heavy Angst, Suicidal Tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Edward, Duke of York on the eve of Agincourt.
Relationships: Duke of Aumerle & Henry V
Comments: 8
Kudos: 17





	wolf night

**Author's Note:**

> This took some time to write - I first started writing this in February, stalled for a long time but whenever I looked back on what I'd written, I really liked it and finally I got the push to finish it! 
> 
> It can be viewed as a sequel or companion piece to [hold fast to your steady bleeding heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823851) but you don't need to read that to follow this.

It was late and it was raining. Edward wondered what it would mean for the battle tomorrow, how the ground might betray them. He tried not to listen to it or study the weary faces arrayed around him or wonder how cold the night was.

The king was speaking, every part of him glittering with conviction and command. The king spoke as if the tent was the grandest of audience chambers, as if the rain was the gentle song of his minstrels. He held each man present in his spell, banished their fears and doubts as if they not in enemy territory, if this was not the eve of a great and terrible battle, as if they were not greatly outnumbered.

Edward thought the king was lying. It was almost impossible to tell with Hal now, he hid the truth with such ease, but surely he knew their chances were but slim and only spoke to make their end such that it would be remembered in song and tale for years to come. Like those warriors of old that cried _death_ and ran into its arms.

Yet even now it was hard for Edward to separate the king from the boy he had known. He saw the child Hal still, armoured and buried, but he was not in the king’s eyes or the unsmiling curve of his lips, but the pale and vulnerable stretch of his nape.

‘I shall not,’ the king said, ‘submit to becoming their prisoner. Yet if that misfortune befalls me, I charge you: let it be done. Do nothing. Send not to England for my ransom.’

Edward cast a surreptitious eye around the tent. Humphrey – the Duke of Gloucester – looked pained and dropped his head. He was pale and uncertain though Edward knew that if Humphrey was aware he was being watched, he would puff his chest out and put up a brazen display to hide his fear. He had been like that since the march to Calais began to go badly.

Some of the other lords present believed the king and some did not. Edward caught one more than looking to the ground and mouthing disbelief, their feet shuffling. They thought Hal was bluffing, that if he was taken prisoner, the country would beggar itself for his freedom. Humphrey, clearly, did not.

Hal finished speaking. He drew himself taller and looked at them all, offering as much silent reassurance as he could muster in his gaze, and then dismissed them.

*

Edward knelt on the floor of his own tent. He was shivering and did not know why – his tent was warm enough, he had been shriven and had prayed out his penance. He could not help but recall the king’s brave, bold words and think of them again and again. How pained Humphrey’s expression had been – Humphrey had believed Hal, that much was obvious, and why should he not?

Hal had always shown a curious disregard for his own skin.

Edward closed his eyes and shuddered. He had known that Hal refused to leave the field at Shrewsbury after being badly wounded, that it was only when the battle was over that he allowed his wound to be properly tended to and Edward could well-remember the fear that Hal would die. There was also the story that, at the height of rumours about his disloyalty, he begged his father to kill him if he believed Hal to be a traitor.

Worse, Edward remembered Hal on his knees before Richard, face pale and desperate as he offered up his life for his father’s treasons, and how he had wept when Richard refused to take it. _I want to die, I want to die,_ he had kept saying even as Richard knelt and held him. He was a child then, not yet thirteen, and his heart was already broken. Richard had raised his head as Hal sobbed into his shoulder and stared at Edward, desolate.

Edward never wanted to see Hal like that again. And he hadn’t.

Hal had perfected the art of dissembling. Even when he stood before Richard’s tomb – Richard who he had loved better, Edward thought, and certainly easier than his own father – he had been cold. Not disrespectful, not unfeeling, but cold. He hid the truth with such ease and Edward doubted Hal’s own brothers could see through the mask he wore.

The mask had broken but once: at Harfleur, sitting by the bed that held the cooling corpse of his most beloved friend. He had sobbed out loud and clutched at Humphrey and then mastered himself. He was still as precise as he had been in Harfleur, as ruthlessly efficient as he had been in Southampton, where he had seen another friend revealed as a traitor. But there was something in Hal that had changed – something that Edward sometimes saw as a reflection of himself: a sense of desolation, a lack of care for his own safety.

Perhaps it had started somewhere between the vigils Hal kept at Richard Courtenay’s sickbed or that dreadful sob. Perhaps earlier, the moment his seal was set on the order for Scrope’s execution or even as far back as Richard holding him as he cried at the news of his father’s return and rebellion. _I would rather die,_ Hal had said earlier, _than be ransomed._ That wasn’t a lie.

Edward let his weight fall back, his bottom resting against his ankles. God. No.

All of Hal’s plans, all of his words – he would throw himself into battle and refuse every offer of mercy. Every fight, every blow – Hal would care for the outcome as little as he would care for the roll of the dice.

Edward’s hands were shaking. He covered his face with them, breathed in sharply. The rain was still pouring. The lamp by his camp bed was still burning. He could look up and see it illuminating the ceiling of his tent, the fabric darkened by the downpour.

He stood up, stumbled, and then turned to speak to his men. He must see Hal again.

*

The king was with his brother Gloucester – Humphrey – and there was the last of the wine shared between them, the colour had stained Humphrey’s lips and he looked a little less pale than before. Hal had his hand on his shoulder and he murmured something in his ear, something Edward hoped was a promise that they would survive.

‘Your grace,’ Edward said after he had bowed. His hair was wet with the rain and he felt exceedingly cold in the warmth of the king’s tent. ‘May we speak alone?’

Hal’s back stiffened, but he nodded. Humphrey’s mouth opened, no doubt an entreaty on the tip of his tongue but he closed it when Hal laid a hand on his wrist and squeezed but once.

‘Go, Gloucester,’ Hal said. ‘See to your men and get some sleep.’

He did not, Edward noted, tell Humphrey to return. Humphrey’s shoulders slumped but he went without argument. Edward went down on his knees before Hal and kissed his hand.

‘You’re cold,’ Hal said, raising him. ‘You still have your provisions, your fire, your blankets?’

‘Yes,’ Edward said and did not know why that question ached within him. ‘I’m as comfortable as possible. I feel, though, as if something terrible is about to happen.’

Hal raised one brow and didn’t point out that they would see a difficult battle when the sun dawned. They had chosen a good position but their numbers were small, their force already weak with hunger and illness.

Edward looked at the cups of wine on the table, and Hal gestured for an attendant to pour another cup, handing it to Edward. Edward sipped at it and grimaced; it was bitter, more vinegar than wine.

‘I meant to get Humphrey drunk,’ Hal said. ‘And he was desperate enough to go along with me. Tomorrow is not the best day to be blooded in warfare. But we don’t have enough wine.’

Edward did not think it fit to mention that Humphrey had been blooded in battle before, at the same battle the scar on Hal’s cheek was made. It had also been the last time Humphrey had fought until Harfleur. That was twelve years ago now.

‘He is more than old enough for it,’ he said instead. Gloucester turned twenty-five only nineteen days ago. ‘And he will be well-protected beside you.’

Hal’s smiled was crooked and fleeting. If there was one thing Edward still trusted, it was Hal’s protectiveness over his siblings, especially his youngest brother. That had been true when he was a child in Richard’s court, when he was the lauded Prince of Wales, and now when Hal was king.

‘I don’t think you came here to comfort me, though,’ Hal said. His eyes narrowed.

‘No.’

Edward tried more of the wine but could not swallow it. He spat it back into the cup. He took a breath and straightened his limbs, made himself look Hal in the eye. But now that he was before Hal, he did not think what he should say. He tried, instead, to be direct.

‘You will flee,’ he said. ‘Tonight. Now. Take a horse and go. Do not look back. Get to Calais, get to safety.’

Hal looked at him for a long moment, his face terrifyingly blank. He shook his head at last and said, ‘No.’

‘Take Gloucester with you – I know you would not leave him, but you must go.’

Hal stood up. He sipped at the wine, the ruby on his finger glowed in the low light, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed. Edward laid his hands flat against the table, felt himself trembling. Outside, the rain kept coming down.

‘What will happen if I flee, Ned?’ Hal asked.

‘You will live.’

Hal’s face spasmed and for a moment Edward thought he would be angry, but he spoke in a level voice.

‘If I leave,’ Hal said, ‘the French will call me coward, will say I lead my men to their deaths and then abandoned them. If I leave, England’s army will be without their king, they will lose heart and they will be crushed. If I leave, Harfleur will be lost after all we spent claiming it. If I leave, I will return to England and be told I am no king at all, to have gambled and lost and paid the price of my follies with blood.’

‘But you will live.’

Hal smiled. ‘For how long, Ned?’

Edward flinched and closed his eyes. He did not want to think about the answer. If Hal faced all that, if he was deposed – there would be no future for him. They both knew too well what happened to deposed kings.

‘Will you not,’ Edward said, trying to clear his throat. ‘Will you not do this for me?’

‘I cannot, Ned,’ Hal said.

‘You must,’ Edward said.

He dragged himself to his feet and turned to Hal, studying the pale, tired oval of his face. He had lost more weight, his cheekbones were too sharp and beneath his eyes was bruised. His lips, usually red, were pale and cold-looking. His eyes were still bright, still saw too much.

‘I never had any children, you know,’ Edward said. ‘I never much liked the company of women in my bed.’

Hal’s posture shifted, confusion crept into the stillness of his face.

‘For years, I accepted I was unlikely to be a father,’ Edward said. ‘In some ways, I was glad of it – and then, then I was with Richard and there were Isabelle and you.’

‘Ned,’ Hal said, a pained little exhalation.

‘No,’ Edward said. ‘I need to say this. Everyone except you – and me, I suppose – are all gone now. Don’t make me watch you die tomorrow.’

‘Ned,’ Hal said again. He held up his hands, which were shaking. ‘I can’t—’

‘You are the closest thing I’ve had to a son, you realise,’ Edward said. ‘In fact, I’ve often felt as if you were. And I know most fathers will bury at least one child but I can’t endure it.’

‘I—’

‘I know you won’t go,’ Edward said. His voice broke and he thought he would fall. ‘And I know you won’t – I never expected—’

Hal crossed the floor and held him so tightly that Edward thought his ribs would crack. He pressed his face into Hal’s shoulder, felt how solid he had grown – still tall and slender, but strong. He would not go down easily and that would have to comfort Edward tomorrow, but he couldn’t accept it now.

Edward squeezed Hal back. ‘You’ll laugh at me, but the year – the months you were with Richard, when I could pretend that we were raising you together – they were the happiest of my life.’

Hal pulled back. Tears gleamed in the distant reaches of his eyes. ‘They were mine too.’

Edward cupped his cheek, pressed his fingers to the ugly scar beside his nose. ‘I don’t – I can’t.’

‘Ned,’ Hal whispered. ‘I’m not going to throw myself at any man’s sword. You know that. We have the superior position and the rain – we’ll use that. We’ve got a good chance.’

Edward shook his head. He wondered if that was what Hal had told Humphrey, trying to comfort him. If Hal believed his own words. He knelt, suddenly, and took Hal’s hand, pressing it to his mouth.

‘Let me command the vanguard,’ he said. ‘Please. I cannot – if you won’t flee, you must give me this.’

‘Get up,’ Hal said. He crouched down next to Edward and tugging at him. ‘Get up, get up, stop this.’

‘I know the van is dangerous and it’s what I want,’ Edward said. ‘I can’t bear to wait in the rear while you – if you make me endure this, I will hate you. I cannot endure losing anyone else.’

‘Why is it that you cannot lose anyone more but I can?’ Hal said.

Edward laughed. ‘Because you are young and have plenty more to lose and I am old and have only you.’

‘If this is about Cambridge—’

‘No,’ Edward said. His eyes burnt as he thought of his younger brother and he bent his head to press them against his sleeve. ‘No. You did what you had to. He made his choice, took the risk.’

It didn’t make it hurt any less but it was true.

Hal sank down onto his knees, held Edward close. His heart was pounding against Edward’s ear and he thought, _you’re just a child, you shouldn’t have to do any of this_. But Hal wasn’t a child. Had maybe ceased to be a child at twelve, begging Richard to kill him for his father’s treasons. Edward clutched at Hal’s hand.

‘Give me the van,’ he said.

Hal’s nod was stiff and jerking but it was still a nod. Edward took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He felt very tired, he wanted to lie down and sleep. He wanted to pretend he was Hal’s father and Hal was a child again and hold him close until the dawn came. But he was not those things and it would be cruel to indulge himself. Besides, there would be much to do before the dawn came.

*

It was noon, or past noon. The sun was weak and there were no church bells to tell him whether None had passed. Edward’s arms ached, the muscles sore, and his fingers kept slipping against the hilt of his sword – already he had thrown away his lance, broken and blunted. There were dying men all around him, French and English alike, and the mud sucked at his feet, held him in place and, if he fell, threatened to swallow him.

He dodged a blow and sent his own back. His opponent fell and Edward made sure he stayed down. His side felt bruised – his ribs were probably broken, but he couldn’t stop and check, much less withdraw. Every man was needed. He could see Hal, the bright gold of his crown on top his helm. A beacon to draw the enemy to him, focus their attack so they could be cut down. But he was alive, standing strong, his banner bright against the grey sky.

Edward smiled.

A sword struck his shoulder, his own sword fell from hands that were suddenly nerveless. He turned, reaching for his knife and felt the second blow fall, cracking him across the head. He fell into the mud, tasted it against his lips. He twisted, hands half-reaching for his knife again and then stopped. He felt that frightened, animalistic impulse, to fight savagely until there was nothing else or to flee to safety, but it meant nothing. He wanted this.

_Richard, forgive me,_ he thought and could think of nothing else to say. His eyes squeezed shut. _Richard, forgive me._ And he smiled beautifully because soon, so soon, he would see Richard again.

Edward’s hands shook but they were steady enough to raise his visor. He braced himself against the corpse of a man he’d killed, pushed himself to his knees. He didn’t have the strength to stand but he wanted to see. The king’s banner, the gleam of his golden crown. How strong Hal was, how mighty – like an oak that would weather any storm. He would live, Edward thought, he would live.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Historical Notes**  
>  It's not known how Edward, Duke of York died at Agincourt. The most famous version of his death claimed that he was immensely fat and subsequently drowned in the mud or suffocated in his own armour but this is a Tudor-era story that seems to originate in the early 1540s, long after the battle itself. Another account says he died in defence of Henry V. Michael Jones suggests that the version of Edward's death found in the Cleopatra CIV chronicle might be closer to the truth: that Edward refused to move far from his standard until he was killed. The vanguard bore the brunt of the French attack and it's believed Edward's retinue saw the heaviest losses on the English side.
> 
> Helpful in setting out events for me to write around were: Juliet Barker's _Agincourt: The King, The Campaign, The Battle_ (Abacus, 2015), Anne Curry's _1415 Agincourt: A New History_ (The History Press, 2015), Michael Jones's _24 Hours at Agincourt_ (WH Allen, 2015) and his article, [How did Edward duke of York die at Agincourt?](http://www.agincourt600.com/2015/08/23/how-did-edward-duke-of-york-die-at-agincourt/).


End file.
